


A Dish Best served Hot

by ScribbleWillow (Soul_in_the_Starlight)



Series: Frustration [2]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:15:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soul_in_the_Starlight/pseuds/ScribbleWillow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turnabout is fair play after all...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dish Best served Hot

He stalks back to his room, somewhat awkwardly, the tumescence in his trousers impeding the flow of his indignation through his legs.  
  
He wants to stride quickly and purposefully, like nothing was wrong, like he hadn't just committed a gross act of abused trust.  
  
But his manhood has other ideas, and so he makes his way to the sanctuary of his room rather awkwardly, slower than he would have liked, stopping to adjust his trousers every few paces.  
  
Once he's safely inside, he sheds his jacket, shrugging out of his braces. He opens his trousers, easing them down far enough to relive the pressure, but not so far that he can't make it to the bed without stumbling.  
  
He sits down carefully, mentally closing the door on on Amy before he saw anything, then rewinding to not open it at all.  
  
He absolutely _hates_ what he's done, although the straining peak in his underwear traitorously disagrees. It seems guilt is not sufficient to dampen it's ardour, and with a sigh and a throughly miserable face, he frees it from it's cotton restraint.  
  
It bobs defiantly, and he shakes his head, resigned to having to deal with it properly. He bends over carefully, untying his boots, toeing them off and removing his trousers. He stands and wriggles out of his briefs, sitting down heavily with a grunt of disapproval at the task ahead.  
  
He takes himself in hand, but then stops, bending once more to take off his socks. Even solo sexual activity is unappealing with socks still in place. He balls them up and kicks them away.  
  
He feels suddenly _awkward_ ; his head isn't the least bit aroused, still in a rigor of mortification at his actions. He would prefer a perfunctory conclusion to this sorry episode, so soon into his new body. He hasn't even thought to explore _that_ side of his new self, but it's evidently in full working order.  
  
With a sigh, he grips himself once more, and begins a slow and uneven rhythm along his length. He feels undignified, embarrassed, but he doesn't feel turned on. And yet it sits in his hand, still smugly engorged, and he palms his face with the awful realisation; to achieve any kind of useful result, he'll need to think of _her_.  
  
To think of Amy, lying there, exposed and panting, and... he hates the word, but can think of no other, _fucking_ herself with some unfeeling object, whilst calling out his name.  
  
 _Doctor_  
  
The memory sends a flood of arousal around his brain, and he leans back slightly, bracing himself against the bed with his left arm, as he holds himself determinedly with his right hand.  
  
 _Amy_  
  
Oh yes, now that's much better...  
  
**  
  
Amy hasn't come _that_ hard on her own for ages. She isn't sure whether it was the size and shape of the thing she'd found in the drawer of her bedside table, or whether it was thinking about him while she impaled herself on it. Maybe it was both. Or neither. Maybe she's just so damned _horny_ since she'd been away from Rory, stuck in that box with the Doctor, all 'look but don't touch'; well, not in _that_ way.  
  
She rolls off the bed, straightening her nightdress. The clock beneath her lamp tells her it's too early to be up; but the Doctor is _always_ around, so she sets off to find him. She's still awash with adrenaline and endorphins, and probably reeks of sex; but she doesn't care, she can do with messing with his head.  
  
He's all hugs and chaste kisses, but keeps her at a distance, and she wonders if to him, she is still that little girl. Even whilst she was getting herself off, she felt like he was watching her, like her every move is under scrutiny.  
  
Well, that little girl has grown up, and she likes sex. He'll have to deal with it.  
  
She walks languidly along the corridors, in that state of slight intoxication following a mind-blowing climax. In her mind, she finds him in the control room, pushing him back onto one of the seats, straddling him with her nightdress hitched, rubbing her wetness over his lap, and kissing the shock from his face.  
  
The thought causes her to inwardly clench again. Self-satisfaction is fine, but it's never as good as the real thing for her. Alien be damned, she'd do him anyway.  
  
Her daydreaming means she's wandered without purpose, and when she brings herself back to the moment, she's standing outside his room.  
  
 _His room_.  
  
She's never been in his room, simply because she's no reason to, the same way he's no reason to enter hers. They need their own space, and although she always locks her door, she knows he'd never come barging in, and she responds likewise.  
  
But his _room_.  
  
He'll be in the control room, touching up the TARDIS; he's always got his hands all over it, they really should just get married or something. _Pervert_.  
  
Well, it's worth a try. As she's here. She'll just have a peep, see how big his bed is, what colour the walls are, see what bondage accoutrements are hanging from his walls.  
  
That last thought makes her giggle. He's far too straight-laced. He might look about 16, but he acts like he's 60, all boring lectures and bow ties, like some kind of embarrassing dad. She'd still do him though, that'd give him something to splutter about. She tries to picture the look on his face if she sucked on his cock.  
  
She reaches for the handle, and wonders for a moment what she'll say if it's unlocked but he's in there. No problem, she can pretend she's not feeling very well. But there's no need to worry, of course it'll be locked.  
  
She tries the handle, and it opens, with an imperceptible click.  
  
**  
The Doctor is _almost_ enjoying it now.  
  
His mind has thrown shame out of the window, and instead is making it's way slowly through the back catalogue of his time with Amy, putting a decidedly more entertaining spin on some of their adventures.  
  
For a start, there was the whole being handcuffed to a radiator by a police woman; oh yes, the fun that could have been had if he'd been in full possession of his new faculties, and not under an alien threat.  
  
He remembers those long legs and seams, the tiny skirt... yes, he was obviously not in his right mind, those alone should have alerted him to the fact she wasn't really an officer of the law. No, no, _focus_ ; the legs, the seams, the blood red nails, the mass of ginger silk tumbling from beneath her hat...  
  
And then there was that nightdress. He'd woken her from sleep and whisked her away in her nightie. She was so trusting, she just agreed, she walked into a box with a madman. He could have done _anything_ to her, could have pushed her up against the console, could have slid his hands up under that thin sheath of cotton and ravished her with his fingers...  
  
Oh yes, _this_ was the stuff, this would get him there. He groans, his left hand screwing up a handful of bedspread as his right hand works harder; close, so very _close_ now...  
  
That hug, on Starship UK, such a missed opportunity. He could have turned her around, backed her up against that enormous window, kissed her until she was dizzy and stripped her naked. And then he could have taken her, making her tremble, watching her come against the backdrop of blazing stars...  
  
He's _almost_ there, his chest heaving, hand pumping, eyes closed tightly as he _fucks_ her in his mind, all distaste for the word now overcome, as he enjoys the raw humanity of it's concept.  
  
A familiar feeling starts to tighten somewhere down deep inside of him, and he growls her name as it starts to unfurl.  
  
" _Amy..._ "  
  
"What are you _doing_?!"  
  
Her voice rings out across the room, freezing his movements and snapping open his eyes.  
  
He swallows, hoping in vain that this is just his mind playing tricks, just a last shred of guilt trying to thwart him.  
  
"Oh my _God._  Are you _wanking_? Over _me_?"  
  
He closes his eyes for a second, and then slowly turns his head.  
  
Death would be so welcome, right about now.  
  
He sees her there, in the doorway, slender hand on the handle, eyes wide in shock, in that damnable white nightdress; a picture of innocence, belying what he saw.  
  
And instead of retreating, she walks into the room! He silently begs for an asteroid strike, unconsciousness, a distress signal, anything, to get him out of this situation right this second.  
  
"So," she purrs, folding her arms and coming to stand right in front of him, "this is what you get up to behind closed doors. Very _human_."  
  
He's _still_ got his cock in his hand, and it's _still_ refusing to deflate. Impotence suddenly seems so appealing.  
  
He clears his throat.  
  
"I believe it's customary to knock before entering, Amelia." He tries his stern voice, his I-am-not-very-impressed-young-lady tone. But he's sitting there holding his erection, which really undermines every word.  
  
"I wasn't expecting it to be open, I just thought I'd try it. I'm nosey, so sue me. I wanted to see what colours you had in your room. I'm a girl, girls like to know that stuff." She uncrosses an arm and inspects her nails.  
  
She's a girl alright. He wants her to _touch_ him...  
  
"Anyway, carry on, don't mind me. I'll just sit over here and watch." She crosses to an antique looking chair in the corner, and settles herself in it, looking at him expectantly.  
  
 _She knows_.  
  
She _knows_ he was watching her.  
  
This is her revenge. And how can he get angry, or tell her to go? She's right, it's only fair, he watched her, and now she's going to watch him.  
  
"Well? I'm waiting? And seriously, you look like you're gonna burst, so I'd get on with it if I were you."  
  
She smiles at him with a sarcastic sweetness and he hangs his head with a sigh.  
  
"And, if you're thinking about me, what could be better than the real thing to look at?"  
  
Amy scoots forward to the edge of the chair, and lays back, hitching her nightdress until she's put herself on show.  
  
She's not sure why she's doing this, but the sight of him is turning her on. She still feels wet from before, and she feels herself twitch inside, prompting another rush of moisture.  
  
"Amy, I'm sorry, you have every right to be angry..." he tries a last appeal, but it falls on deaf ears.  
  
"Sorry for what? Just get on with it, let's see if we can come _togethe_ _r_!' The excitement in her voice and the flash in her eyes sends another surge of arousal to his groin.  
  
And then she touches herself.  
  
She slides her fingers down into to her wetness, and he can smell her, and hear the slick sucking sounds as her fingers disappear inside.  
  
He starts to slowly stroke himself again, eyes fixed on her fingers, as they slip and slide and rub.  
  
She moans so deliciously, so _wantonly_  that he can barely stand to hear it. He swallows down his self-consciousness, in the face of her _shamelessness_ and begins his strokes once more.  
  
Amy watches him hungrily, her pupils feeling like they're going to explode. She's so wet she can feel it sliding along her thighs, and the sight of him looking back at her, with a familiarly human yet feral glint in his eyes, snaps her resolve just to tease him.  
  
She throws herself from the chair and is upon him before he can protest. She knocks him back on the bed and is astride him, fingers tearing at the buttons of his shirt, a frustrated growl building in her throat as she fumbles with the fastenings. She squeals in annoyance and just rips it apart, buttons flying. She reaches down to guide him into her, though she hardly needs to, her slick thighs ensuring he's not likely to lose his way.  
  
The Doctor is taken by surprise, and before he can _pretend_ to protest, she has ripped open his shirt and taken him by force.  
  
Life doesn't get much better than this.  
  
She rides him hard, almost angrily, shedding her nightdress on a downward stroke. His hands, which had been splayed passively by his head, reach up towards her, but she pins them back down. And then she rolls to the side, and somehow he's on top now, her heels digging into his arse as she urges him on.  
  
Faster and harder and deeper and tighter; again and again, and then the universe explodes.  
  
She wraps herself around him as he falls down into her.  
  
And _this_ time, he's clinging to her; as she's ripped right from the world.


End file.
